Shadows are round me as the dawn breaks,
Shadows with long white swaying arms
And anguished faces.
I see them meet and touch and part
Crying their desire,
While a bitter figure moulds them
In a shifting decoration
Which enchants, eludes and maddens,
Imprisoning my dreams.
Now they plead and droop and cower,
Holding wan hands
To whatever gods there be,
Praying intercession
From the malign enchantment
Of their decorative doom
Whence they weep their silent tears.
Oh, Draughtsman terrible
Who puts out the moon and stars,
Who smiles and waves a hand
And puppet hearts are broken,
Let them love!
Only a moment in a theater,
Only a moment under the stars,
All there may be before the end—
Let them love!
The show is over.
The swaying puppets of a little longer hour
Go forth and cry out their desire
To a Master of Decoration,—
Their God unseen,
And He, like you, smiles, puts forth a hand
And blots the moon and stars
And tears the glory from the earth and sky
And cries:
“Back to your places, fools!
You shall not love!”